Beer and Twinkies
by Connecticut Junkie
Summary: Logan takes Jubilee to a bar. But who really gets corrupted? Sequel to "To Catch a Twinkie Thief" and "Logan's Twinkie Run"


Title: Beer and Twinkies

Author: Connecticut Junkie

Rating: PG13ish for a couple swear words

Summary: They've got their Twinkies- what else can Logan and Jubilee do to pass the time? Go drinking of course! Sequel to "To Catch a Twinkie Thief" and "Logan's Twinkie Run"

Notes: Takes place in Movieverse after X2, but again, I'm putting it under Comics since Jubilee was barely in the movies. Its all subjective anyhow.

Disclaimer: I don't own Xmen. Duh.

* * *

The Evil Troll of I.D. Checking gives my I.D. a hard glare before he turns his ugly Troll Eyes on me. I give him my best 'Don't question _me_, mofo' raised eye brow. He just squints his Troll Eyes in response. This is so embarrassing. Logan's gonna get in and I'm gonna have to wait in the parking lot, passing the hours away by imagining the episode of Cribs where Orlando and I will show off our fabulous house, and tell stories about how we met on the set of "Lord of the Rings 4: Freddy vs. Aragorn" and he fell madly in love with me, breaking the hearts of fangirls everywhere.

"How old are you?" the Troll asks. Like, ew. He only has about fifty percent of his original teeth. Any fuzzy feelings I had from the Orlando dream instantly vaporize.

I try my best to remember what the year on the license is, and do the math, but like I told you I'm dyscalculic and my first answer is '12' which I don't think is right. But before I can even blurt my best guess out, there is a hand on my ass. And I may be smoking crack or something cause I swear to God and country that it's Logan's.

"She's with me," he growls, and squeezes. My first thought is 'I want to die.' Then my second thought hits, and it's 'yay for Buns of Steel videos.' I told Marie that if she did them enough, her ass could be as firm as mine, but for some reason that comment only pissed her off and I still have no workout partner. Why the hell am I thinking of Marie anyhow? Some old dude has his hand on my ass! Ooh, Marie would be so jealous.

I'm sure I'm looking at him with this WTF expression, cause he gives me the slightest wink that says, 'play along' as he pulls me up against him, romance cover style. Only he looks more like a lumberjack than a pirate, and I look more like a mall rat in pajamas than a princess. And my bosom is not so much heaving as it is flat. But if Logan wants me to play along, then...

I put _my_ hand on _his_ ass and squeeze. And again I'm thinking two things. One: I wish I had a camera right now cause the look on his face is utterly priceless, I mean, one of those ugly Chinese vases the prof has in his study priceless. And Two: I hope Orlando doesn't come into the bar right now and think I'm cheating on him.

Evil Troll shrugs and lets us in. We saunter over to the bar- well Logan saunters and I just kind of nervously shuffle. His hand leaves my butt and I have to admit I'm a little sad. But I'm so not telling him that.

"What're you having?" he asks me.

"Whatever will get the memory of your hand on my ass out of my mind," I say with as much disdain as possible. How _dare_ he- after all, I'm promised to Orlando.

He snorts and orders something called a boilermaker, which while I don't know what it is, it does NOT sound yummy. "You know you liked it," he taunts, and I sincerely hope 'boilermaker' is underground bar slang for 'giant glass of arsenic.'

"Did not!" I firmly defend. Ooh, good argument there, Jubes. Next thing you know I'll be calling him a 'stupid butt-face' and threatening to tell the teacher.

He just responds by raising his eyebrows and saluting me with his drink, which turns out is a shot of whiskey dropped in a glass of beer, which is like totally yuck. He's so arrogant it makes me want to smash the glass right into his face while he's drinking. He honestly thinks his dirty old man hands on my butt would turn me on? What to the ev.

"Even if it did," I say, the disdain dripping from my voice so that he knows there is no way on Earth that it did, "you can't prove it."

He puts the empty glass down and gives a mighty belch which is sooo unattractive. Then he grins, which _would_ be sooo attractive if he hadn't burped like half a second before. "I could smell it."

Oh. Gross. Gross gross gross gross _gross._ I want to vomit and I haven't even had a drink yet. This night looks like it is going downhill on roller skates. The kind with rockets attached.

"It's because I was thinking of _Orlando_," I lamely retort.

The bartender guy passes by and I reach out and tug on his sleeve. He smiles at me, which looks a little funny on his tough-guy face. Like if Dolph Lundgren wrote kids books and ran around smiling and skipping with puppies.

"What'll it be, little lady?"

Hee. He called me 'little lady'. It's like in those crappy John Wayne movies Cyke sometimes watches. "Beer!" I say, slapping the counter like they do in those crappy John Wayne movies. "Straight up!" I add.

After I drink my beer in three large gulps, the night starts to get better. Of course, I start to get drunker, but there is that whole directly proportional component to happiness and alcohol to consider. (See? I'm not just a mall rat. I'm edu-ma-cated!)

And intoxicated. Oops. I probably should have had more twinkies. I wonder if Logan's drunk.

"Hey! You drunk?" I ask him. No point in beating around the bush. That requires extra work and I'm the self-crowned Queen of Lazy-ville. We would have found a better name but we're too lazy. Haha. Man, I think I'm drunk.

"Working on it," he growls, like I interrupted him at some all-important task, like curing cancer or finding the perfect shade of red nail polish.

"Well, sorr-eeeee." I turn back to my beer but it's like, empty and stuff. "Barkeep!" I call out, because I like that word, "please bring me and my husband here another round."

Logan's beer mug drops on the bar with somewhat of a clatter. I knew that husband thing would get him. I'm so evil. Mwuhaha, behold my mighty laugh of evil.

"Forget the beer, just bring the whiskey," he says to Dolph. I look at the shot glass put in front of me with a most scrutinous gaze.

"I'm not drinking that."

"What are you, afraid?"

"No," I firmly state. "It probably has like a million calories," I finally come up with.

"Not as many as beer."

Crap. Now I'm gonna have to do Buns of Steel twice tomorrow. I pick up the shot glass and sniff it. Great. Now I'm acting like Logan. What if I drink this vile liquid and turn into him?

"Just drink it!" he yells. He's so good at corrupting minors. If it were an Olympic sport, he would win a gold medal and stand on the podium, and it would be the first time the Canadian anthem was played nowhere near an ice rink. And he'd be holding flowers!

I stick out just the tip of my tongue and dip it in the whiskey. "Ahh!" It's worse than Marie's cooking. I put it back on the bar and push it over to him. "You take it."

He shoves it back at me and leans over so his lips are all up against my ear and his stubble is brushing my cheek and neck and who'd have thought stubble could turn a girl on so fast? Stupid stubble!

"Don't be such a pussy," he says, and now I can't think. Logan. Naughty words. Mmmmm. Hey, where'd my shot go? Oh. I drank it. Cool!

I plunk the glass down on the counter to prove my un-pussiness. There are already two empty ones in front of Logan. Not fair. "Another one!" I call out to Dolph. I'll prove to him that _he's_ the real pussy!

Mmmm. Whiskey.

I wonder how much he has to drink to get hammered. My curiosity extends only as far as him though, because as I've now realized, one beer and three shots is enough for me. To get hammered, that is. To get completely, stupidly, drunker than drunk, the fourth shot will do it.

I slam shot glass number four down on the bar. Those people who jump off bridges and buildings with parachutes- that's stupid. Trying to keep up with Logan when he's drinking- it makes those jumping guys look like walking, talking ads for Mensa. Not that Mensa has ads. Whatever, I'm drunk.

I think that the bartender dude realizes he's got a good customer in Logan and agrees to leave him the rest of the bottle. No more fussing with little glasses for us!

"I feel so special!" I shout over the music and reach for the bottle.

He moves it out of my reach. "I think you've had enough."

"Who are you, Judge Judy?" He lifts his eyebrow, this time signaling incomprehension of pop reference. "'Cause you're like, judging me and stuff. Oh, never mind. Just pass the damn bottle."

"No more drinking for you."

This would make me sad, except whatever hillbilly honkytonk music is blaring out of the jukebox catches my attention.

"Hey! Do you dance?"

"No."

"Liar!"

He smirks. "How do you know?"

Let's toss his own cookies back in his face. "Because I can smell it!"

Apparently, every sentence I say when drunk should have an exclamation mark on it. I can't stop yelling. I'm sure it's very annoying but I can't help it. I tug on his arm. "Daaaaance!"

He swallows a good swig of whiskey. "If it gets you to shut up..."

He gets up and reluctantly follows me to the dance floor. But I choose to ignore his reluctance, and instead prefer to think he wants me. He wants me badly.

So I've never lined dance in my life before, and to be honest, I've never listened to country music before. But I _have_ watched MTV my whole life. So I know a few Britney moves or two. Actually, I know them all. I like dancing.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Dancing, duh."

"To what?"

"The music. Duh, again."

"Not like that." The amount of scorn in his voice for my dancing style would totally tip the scales of a Scorn-o-Meter.

"What's wrong with it?"

"First, you look like a stripper."

"Thank you!"

"It's not a compliment, cupcake. Second, that's not how you dance to country."

I kick him in the shin. Why? Because I feel like it. "So show me, oh great Yoda of Country dancing." I go to kick him again and he catches my foot and yanks on it so that I fly forward. He catches me and pulls me up against him.

"Call me Yoda one more time and I'll use all your iPod for claw-practice."

I make my lips pout and tremble in mock-fear. "Yes, Master." He lets me go. "Master Yoda!"

"Yer on your own." He goes back to the bar. Fine. I didn't want to dance with him anyway. Country dancing is stupid. You've gotta dance like no one's watching anyhow, if you want to live your life to the fullest. I learned that off a bumper sticker.

I dance until I get sweaty, then head back over to the bar, where there are no more seats because a few more people have showed up.

"Is this seat taken?" I ask, sliding onto Logan's lap. Shameless, I know, but there really are no other seats. I swear! Okay, there's an empty one like six stools down but then I'd have to walk down there, pick it up, carry it over here, blah blah fishcakes. This is way better. Besides, I don't want to carry my own stool. Hahah! Poop jokes!

"Be my guest," he replies, downing another shot.

He's switched to Everclear. I wonder why they named it after that band, because they totally suck. I could understand Rolling Stones liquor, but Everclear? Hello, there are more than three cords!

"So, can you get drunk? Plastered? Schnozzled?" I think I may be making words up but they sound right in my head so I'm not too sure.

"Sometimes," he answers. "Gotta work real hard at it though."

"You know what they say about all work and no play," I say, and point a finger at him. "It..." Ugh! I know there's something else that goes with it. "Um..." This sucks. All my witty conversational skills have been tossed out the window and then run over by a pack of escaped elephants being ridden by fat people or something.

"What do they say?" he says with a smirk.

"That it's uh...that you shouldn't. Work all the time. Turns you boring. Like Cyke."

"Then I'll make sure to play some more."

"Yeah," I agree, and salute him with the water he's insisted I start drinking. "Let's play with ourselves."

What? What's so funny? Why is he laughing? God, I hate him. I hate him so much that I want to lick his naked chest as a form of punishment and/or torture.

His laughing is jostling me around, which is not fun for my bladder. Nor for me, because it means I have to get off his lap, but it's either that or risk incontinence. And I'm only eighteen, which is way too young for Depends.

"I have to pee," I inform him, and make my way over to the ladies room, where I so skillfully manage not to plop my drunken ass _in_ the toilet. I come out of the restroom and run smack into two-hundred fifty pound of man-muscle.

"Ouch. I think your pectoralis major gave my brain a minor concussion," I say, looking up at the offender. I told you I took anatomy. Ooh. He's cute, in a professional-wrestler kind of way.

He shrugs. "You know what they say. The fastest way to a man's heart is straight through his chest."

What? Is it because I'm drunk that he makes bad jokes? Ah, who cares. He's cute. So I giggle in my best female way. "Cute."

"Just like you."

Maybe I should get out and flirt more so that I know if his lines are lame or not. Mental note: Get out and flirt more. There. I'm sure I'll remember that tomorrow morning.

I think he senses my flagging attention because he holds out his hand. "Hi. I'm Gator."

Does _everyone_ have a code name?

I shake back. "As in Alli-?"

"Well aren't you the smart cookie."

"Can I call you Al?"

"If I can call you Betty."

"Dude! You got it! You're awesome!" I brush the hair out of my eyes. "Wait...who are you?"

"Gator. I'm a bouncer here. I also fix-up and customize old Mustangs, so if you wanna go for a ride sometime..."

"Whoa. I was told never to get in the car with a stranger. Or take candy from them."

"I'm not a stranger."

"That's right. You're Gator."

"The bouncer."

"Gator the bouncer. Al for short."

"And you are?"

"Jubilation the young Asian gymnast. How many fetishes does that satisfy?"

"More than a few. But don't worry, I got a couple more." He leans in closer. "How bout you?"

"Me?" Uh-oh. I can see a very annoyed looking Wolvie across the room. Maybe he's annoyed at something else. He is moody, after all.

"Yeah. You...fetishes?"

"Oh." And then, uh-oh, because holy burritos, Batman, a very annoyed looking Wolvie is coming this way. "Yeah, I like them big, dumb, and hairy," I say, just as Wolvie gets to us.

"She's with me," he growls.

"I am?"

He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me in close to his chest. I remind myself not to lick it, as that would be inappropriate yet tasty. "Yes, you are," he grits out, and his other arm snakes its way around my waist too, so that now he's got me in one of those bear-hug wrestling moves and I can't get away. When I try to squirm out, he picks me up off the ground an inch or two. I would protest some more, but I just realize that his arms are all nice and muscley.

"Yeah! I'm with him!" I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at Logan, who starts to take me away. "Bye, Gator!"

To the dismay of my self-confidence, Gator does not seem life-threateningly depressed because I'm now off-limits. "Bye, Betty."

Logan plops me down on a stool. "You are not under any damn circumstances to talk to any male in this place."

"Jealous?"

"Hardly."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"That was sarcasm, dumb ass."

"That was stupid."

"You're stupid!"

"I know. I'm stupid for taking you here in the first place."

I cross my arms and try to look haughty. "I thank you for admitting to your stupidity."

Then I think about what he said. "Hey! You mean you're not having fun with me?"

"You made me dance. I'm not too happy about that, darlin'."

"Well, we'll have to fix that." I push the bottle of Everclear at him. There's just a little bit left. "Drink up."

He does. He shakes his head like a dog when he's done and lets out a sigh of relief. "I think that'll do it."

"Do what?"

"Get me fucked up." He waves a hand in front of his face. "Yep. Fucked up."

Okay, just in case you forgot, I am also drunk. So I can't be held accountable for what I say next, which is, "Honey, if you wanted to get fucked, all you had to do was ask."

I cover my mouth the instant it comes out. I'm sure I'm blushing too. But instead of being all, 'that's so inappropriate,' Logan just laughs. A full, deep laugh that shows off the crinkles in his eyes and his pointy canine teeth. He pats me on the head, and still chuckling, says, "Kid, you're all right."

I want to kiss him. Just fall forward, grab him by his pointy hair, climb onto his lap and play tonsil hockey with him until I can't breathe. He's Canadian. He likes hockey. I get quiet as I picture the scenario. Then I fall forward, even before I can decide if it's a good idea or not.

"Oops," I say, as I smack my head into his shoulder. "I seem to have fallen."

"Yeah. Drinking'll do that to ya."

Suddenly I don't feel too good. "Can I stay here?"

He puts an arm around me for support. "As long as you need to."

From the corner of my eye I see him pay the bar tab. Then we just sit there, waiting. I guess he's gotta sober up as well. To pass the time I play with his forearm. If you push in the right spots, you can feel the claws underneath. It's cool in a weird way.

"I miss Jean," I blurt out.

"I know. Me too, darlin'." He pats my knee.

"Thanks for taking me out with you." Impulsively, I reach up and kiss his cheek before settling back down into his shoulder. Ugh. Moving was definitely not a good idea.

"Yer welcome," he says back, quietly. Another moment passes before he gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Come on. Time to go home."

I try to stand up but it's not as easy as it was before. Logan keeps his arm around me as we walk out of the bar. He puts me in front of him on the bike, I guess because he's afraid I'd fall off otherwise. It's perfectly fine by me though, since it means I get to feel his chest- and I think I'm starting to develop some kind of fetish here myself- pressed against me for the ride home. Unfortunately, I think I fell asleep for most of the way; just a few seconds seem to pass before we're pulling back into the garage.

My head spins when we get off. Logan catches me. "Can you walk?"

"Depends. By 'walking' do you mean falling to the ground and not moving for days?"

His answer to that is, "Don't hurl on my jacket," and he picks me up, slinging me over his shoulder as he heads into the house.

The ground is swaying quite dangerously- for me that is, as the swayingness of it is inducing in me the need to hurl. And to hurl quite proficiently. In vast quantities. Considering that all I've had are twinkies and whiskey, I really would not like to see that combo come up.

"Are we there yet?" I whine.

Logan chuckles and readjusts me, which is totally erroneous because I wasn't falling in the slightest. The real reason is that he's a bastard, plain and simple. "Keep yer panties on," he sniggers.

"Not if you keep sweet talking me like that." I may be drunk but it just impairs my ability to drive, not to employ sarcasm.

He shakes his head and chuckles some more. "Kid, yer gonna be the death of me."

I think his timing is either perfect or really, really bad. Because the second he says that, we round the corner and run right into Scott, who I can tell, even through those red glasses, is eying us with severe disapproval.

There's only one way to get out of a lecture at the moment.

I hurl all over the floor and pass out.

Tomorrow, I'm gonna be _so_ dead.

-the end-

* * *

Yay! That's the end! I wrote it years ago and forgot it existed. Hence all the Orlando Bloom references. Sorry! Hope it was worth it


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